


The Windmill Knight and the Meditating Emperor

by shirogiku



Series: Books & Memories [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: A NEW TAG, All The Love For Miranda, And Very In Love, Books, Don Quixote - Freeform, Fluff, Gen, JAMES STILL HAS HAIR, James Doesn't Know How To Talk To Children, Libraries, Marcus Aurelius, Possibly AU, Pre-Series, Thomas & James Being Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Abigail and James share a moment in her father's library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Windmill Knight and the Meditating Emperor

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Suppose somewhere between the fateful dinner and James sailing off for the Bahamas, a visit to Peter's country house fit in.

Abigail was a calm, lively and curious child, happily encouraged to exercise her imagination. The woods around the family estate, she peopled with magical creatures and other wondrous and frightening things. The country house itself was divided into several smaller realms, intersecting but never merging.

In Father’s library, she perceived a cold, forbidding quality, as befitting a Man of Importance. She would not think to play there, but if she were to _hide_ there, her nurse would not find her - not in a hundred years!

And so, timorously, she tiptoed her way in; she wouldn’t have dared to had she not seen Father go off shooting earlier this morning. Uncle Thomas was with him, so it promised to be a long, leisurely ramble, and perhaps they would bring her a weasel or a badger!

Shelves upon shelves of light tan, dark brown, blue, and black volumes with gold-tooled titles greeted her approach, their musty, leathery smell tickling her nostrils. They seemed to her like a silent panel of judges, and she faltered in her steps, trying to count them but very quickly running out of numbers.

She hurried on resolutely. The heart of the room was dominated by the huge marble fireplace with a decorative wrought-iron railing, which Auntie Miranda had once called a whole Greek temple squished into the wall, but hush.

Abigail froze at the sound of a page being turned, too loud in the silence. So absorbed had she been in her sneaking around that she had failed to notice the gentleman in the Lonesome Armchair (it was placed some distance off and Lord Ashe never sat in it). If she hadn’t been rooted to the spot, she should have bolted straight away!

“Hello, Miss Ashe,” said the gentleman, in a hesitant manner. She gulped and cast about for a hiding place within a hiding place. He went on, sounding almost as nervous as she was feeling: “My name is James.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They had been introduced, and she always remembered her parents’ acquaintances. Now that she had had a moment to recollect herself and study him a bit, she wondered at his trying to occupy as little of the plush space as possible, as if making himself comfortable would be against the rules.

“Might I ask… Why is your neckcloth black?” Everyone she knew wore them in white. “Are you in mourning?” She regretted the question immediately - it was hardly a creditable opening.

“Indeed, I am not.” He adjusted the item, even though it was in perfect order. “I have worn it in this colour ever since I made midshipman.”

Right, he was a seaman! It was all very distant to her. “Um, I should like to travel a lot when I am older.”

“I’m sure you will, Miss Ashe” he told her with a hint of a smile.

She pointed up at the ceiling. “Aren’t these a fright?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “They are _always_ watching.”

Mama and Auntie Miranda had been conspiring to have it repainted for ages, but Father would hear none of that, so the sprawling battlefield remained where it was, looming over the readers. To be fair, it was a good illustration to many of Father’s favourites.

James chuckled, smoothing his hand over the open pages. “What would you rather have there?”

“Oh, all sorts of things, I daresay!” She climbed into Father’s armchair, barely remembering not to put up her feet. “Flowers and knights and their ladies fair.” She could not _quite_ explain how a knight differed from a soldier, but intuitively, she preferred the former over the latter. “What about you?”

“A guest must not presume to redecorate.” His eyes flickered between her and the book, as if he was trying to read and converse at the same time.

“Why aren’t you out shooting with Papa and Uncle Thomas? The weather is so nice!”

Again, his countenance hinted at a smile, even as he repeated the gesture. “I fear I make a terrible shooting companion for them. When my aim is too good, I vex their competitive spirits, and when it is too poor, they question my military prowess.”

She asked him what he was reading about, and he showed her the title: _The Secret History of Queen Zarah._ But it disappointed her, proving to be a political satire and not a tale of romance and adventure. He was surprised to hear that she had already learnt her way around books herself, and she sighed because it would be a while until she was allowed the _really_ interesting ones.

“Do you know the one about the Windmill Knight? Auntie Miranda has told me all about it!” Abigail could just picture a tall, gaunt horseback rider with a lance and the windmills trailing after him like ducklings. “And there is also that Roman Emperor who is always meditating. They ought to meet!”

“Ought they, really?” James’s eyes were wide and full of mirth. “In defiance of the laws of time and nature?”

“Certainly! The Windmill Knight has got too many windmills, and the Meditating Emperor must be running out of things to meditate upon.” She paused. “So he would meditate upon the windmills!”

James laughed. “What a remarkable solution! I applaud your reasoning.”

Now that she was settled so snugly, James had no choice but to tell her why a midshipman was called that, and what other officers there were aboard a ship. Truth to be told, it wasn’t _terribly_ interesting, but he was so passionate about the subject that she forgot to doze off.

Too soon, came the sounds of the shooting party’s return. She only just managed to spring to her feet and dart behind James’s armchair before Uncle Thomas sprang into the room, inquiring about his friend’s progress brightly and laughingly about a villainous partridge that he and Lord Ashe had been pursuing for the better part of the morning. Abigail had never _heard_ of such a disobliging game bird.

“If being a difficult quarry is all that makes a villain,” James mused, “does that make an easy prey necessarily a martyr?”

Lord Ashe appealed to the other two gentlemen not to philosophise on an empty stomach. “Especially after letting it go yourself, Thomas.”

“Oh, you did, didn’t you?” There was such warmth in James’s tone as could not escape even Abigail’s notice.

“I had no heart to shoot such a clever thing!” Standing so close to the armrest that he was practically perched on it, Thomas caught Abigail’s eyes.

She gestured at him imploringly, and after a moment’s deliberation, he gave her a slight nod.

Lord Ashe spoke on, oblivious of their silent exchange, “That might have fooled someone ignorant of the simple fact that you, Lord Hamilton, are an appalling shot. It is all very well to show generosity when your quarry has bested you, but what of the wasted gunpowder?”

Thomas leaned in to whisper to James: “I swear, he must have _kept count_.” He winked at Abigail and proceeded to redirect her father’s attention to a bookshelf opposite from them.

She stifled a giggle, because sometimes, Uncle Thomas barely counted as an adult. James got up and edged towards the door, covering her escape.

“There you go,” he murmured in the corridor. “Your nurse must be frantic by now.”

Oh, yes, she must be in serious trouble! “Thank you, James!”

However, her courage deserted her for another moment, and she lingered, overhearing James ask,

“Are you satisfied with my choice of book? You have told me you would be cross with me if I did not read for leisure, and I have done as bidden.”

Uncle Thomas, cross with anybody?

Father banished both of them from the library for an unspecified offence. Abigail peered at them innocently.

Thomas was the first to capitulate, “Oh, very well, your diplomatic immunity is hereby extended to tea-time.”

The Hamiltons and their new friend were delightful visitors in that respect. But Abigail soon learnt that they had merely come for a couple of days, being awfully busy in the city. Mother entreated them to stay longer, but in vain.

Abigail watched Auntie Miranda on her favourite walking path. In general, Lady Hamilton was a prodigious walker, braving any hill. Her face was turned up to the sun and she seemed so serene that Abigail would be sorry to disturb her.

“I know you’re there, little sprite,” Miranda told Abigail, without opening her eyes. “What tidings do you bring me?”

She pondered it. “There shall be chocolate tarts for tea!” And she might or might not have smuggled one out.

“Oh my, your Mama really means to keep us here, doesn’t she?”

They walked on, sharing the treat. “I don’t want you to go either,” Abigail confessed, touching Miranda’s skirts.

Miranda sighed, resting her hand against Abigail’s shoulder lightly. “You need more playmates your own age, my dear. Spending so much time arounds adults shortens the childhood.”

That would be _wonderful_. “I would be the bestest of friends with any child of yours!” she declared with conviction.

She felt Miranda’s look rather than saw it. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> they mostly took chocolate as a fashionable drink back then, so the chocolate tart might or might not be an anachronism. it would look smth like [this](http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5099/5466603715_1a31e351e8_z.jpg).


End file.
